Tenfold Words
by blue-bubble97
Summary: Where Sherlock buys a dove and John doesn't know what to do. First two chapters are from John's POV and the last two are from Sherlock's. Reviews are very much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

John * Appetizer

_Appetizer: entrails of human specimen 459X, a light soupy dish peppered with exasperation. Underlying sweetness with the familiarity of your everyday life._

In all the years of my life, I cannot remember for the life of me how I put up with this flat mate of mine on daily basis.

Just yesterday, Sherlock had been a blunt cockblock on my eighth (I insist that it was only the eighth) failed date since moving in; and on the day before, I had nearly choked on his own spit upon catching a whiff of the truly terrible odor of rotting whatsits that wafted out from the kitchen.

Today, there were strange little lumps of grey and pink all over the floor.

Sighing had become a common expression, and I felt creases take form on my forehead. What sort of gruesome sight would lie before me in the kitchen?

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you in the kitchen?" I gritted my teeth as I struggled to pick my way through the undesirable substances that blanketed the floor. Pausing at a strange red spot of liquid on the ground, I wrinkled his nose at the familiar, irony tang of blood. "Sherlock! There's blood on the floor! Again! What've you been doing?"

Several muffled replies were heard, and I couldn't help but sigh again. There was clearly no way to find out what on earth was going on until I had seen that crazy flat mate of mine personally.

"You know, I'd appreciate it if you'd actually let me into your mysteries every once in a whi – _SHIT SHERLOCK."_

On the lacy tablecloth of Mrs. Hudson's table lay what could only be entrails of a human complete with various other body parts. The sink's handle was stained with blood (I dreaded to think of what the basin of the sink might look like. And that I might be the one clearing it up later) and a rather realistic, live-sized doll (fingers crossed that it wasn't an _actual human_) was positioned by the windows, dangling from a thick cord. The curtains looked slightly charred at the tips – meaning that Sherlock had been playing with his Bunsen burners again – and the wallpaper was dyed with brown-red still drying splotches.

Crimson streaked the table legs and puddled by the legs of Sherlock Holmes. The world's greatest and only consultant detective held a human hand (_a real human hand_) in his own, his brows furrowed as he examined his specimen.

"Sherlock for fuck's sake what are you doing?"

Silence. Sherlock showed no interest in the conversation in the slightest, continuing to glare accusingly at the hand as if it were going to come to life and strangle him.

"Sherlock."

Stony silence.

"Look, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't want to see this. You'd better clear up your little experiment soon and make sure you've –"

...

I bit down on my lower lip, body frozen in mid-step, squeezing my eyes shut in disgust.

"Sherlock, if I've just stepped into some brains from your mess I _will _kill you."

More silence. This time, I could feel Sherlock staring at me, his thoughts echoed loud and clear through my head (_Really John? You'll kill me? Hardly possible, given the size of your brain)_. Upon hearing the chair creak, I wearily lifted his eyelids, willing myself not to look downwards at the undoubtedly unpleasant mess on my shoes. I tried to console myself with the fact that things could've been a lot worse had I been barefooted.

The ivory-black haired man had gotten up from his seat and was standing before me, his upper body bent so that he could hold my gaze evenly.

"First of all, you aren't going to kill me," Sherlock's deep voice hummed quietly, its sides laced with an emotion that I couldn't quite point out.

"Watch me."

Sherlock seemed to study my face, his eyes scanning the contours and various deep-set wrinkles. His eyes were nothing like I've ever seen – they could've been the lively blue of the summer sky, but it looked as if somebody had poked a hole somewhere by his iris and all the colour had drained out. What remained was the cool grey days of winter and frost.

"Second, those were the intestines."

That was all it took. I bent down to grab the slimy, bloody (literally) entrails and flung them at the consultant detective's stoic face. Pretty eyes be damned.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES I WILL END YOU."


	2. Chapter 2

John * Relevés

_Relevés: a snowy white dove. Slightly sour yet spicy – another relatively light dish aimed to mingle the senses and induce fleeting confusion. Dipped in the freshly cut leaves and petals of a yellow rose. Lemon extract becomes evident toward the end, souring the entire palate._

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, he deduced everything about me. His x-ray eyes frightened, yet enthralled me. Coupled with perpetually bed-headed mass of curls and the stoic coolness, the man certainly looked the part of a psycho consultant detective.

But yet those eyes that seemed to be able to peer through me as if I was nothing more than a thin sheet of crystal glass; those eyes that would come across as aloof and unapologetic; those eyes that were so irritatingly _intrusive _and cold; those eyes that made you see things the way they wanted you to.

From the first time I met my Sherlock, I've always had that one thought that, by now, had settled itself at the pit of my stomach:

Sherlock Holmes had the loneliest, most desolate eyes I had ever seen.

It took us a full two hours to wipe, clear and polish the place back to the way it was. Sherlock showed no remorse whatsoever (like the typical stick up the ass he was) as I flung the long strings of intestines at him, simply opting to not move out of the way and allowing the grey strings to hang off his frame. Later, he proceeded to help me wipe, running the rag over the table's surface in a robotic-like fashion, entrails still dangling like Christmas tree tinsel.

"…Sherlock, would you mind removing the sodding intestines? It's disgusting –"

"Most fascinating, John."

The idiot wasn't even _listening _to me. Or helping, for that matter. Instead, the man was standing by the window, his head slightly bowed and I could almost hear him scrutinizing something I couldn't see.

When Sherlock turned around, he had a birdcage in his hand. Within the sterling silver sat a white dove, making soft cooing noises from its perch.

"…So you bought a dove for experimentation." I folded my arms, slightly exasperated.

"Yes, John, a very good observation." Sherlock continued to gaze at the dove with a sort of a wowed gaze, merely raising an eyebrow at my statement.

"_Dovius cloviuntas_," the man continued, walking towards me but never once removing his eyes from the bird. "It's fascinating, isn't it, John? How these things have such astoundingly tiny brains and are able to tread on the bane of existence knowing nothing but to feed itself. Perceptible by comparison to you, of course –"

"Excuse me?"

" – my _goodness_, how do you continue to breath while walking, John? Must be hard for you to continue living everyday knowing that your brain capacity is sadly limited to something only half as complex at what you should be solving. What'll be a good name for this dove? Not too smart or fancy of course, perhaps Bob would be adequate seeing as the bird's head is…" here, Sherlock gestured with his hands, "…bobbly."

"Sherlock –"

"You know what? I'll call it John. After all, it's only fair that you find a suitable companion of similar intellect as yours. Not everybody can match mine, I'm aware so there's no need to be ashamed or anything of that sort."

"Sherlock! What are you –"

"Quiet, John. Don't speak too much you'll give me a headache and John in the cage here doesn't appreciate it either, although I must say your voice is a tad more melodious than Anderson's. You mustn't give up hope John! Remember: there are people out there who are even stupider than you are so feel free to insult them and all your failed dates too. My, how many have you had this year? Twelve? I suggest you quit. The lady you're going out with tonight, she's probably going to stand you up after the seventh date seeing as you've prepared an expensive gift for her I see wrapped up in sparkly eye-catching paper you have over there which must mean she must be a rich miserly lady who's eyeing you for money that you clearly don't have because you're just a soldier back from Afghanistan who is in a desperate need of another job but is unable to cope with your own daily schedules at the clinic and you are therefore not earning any money for the both of us which is the source of your stress every once in a while because you're so utterly _clueless _about how things work anyway so I can't blame you there you also have yet to make a good impression on your colleagues in the clinic therefore no friends and I'm not surprised at all given the way you carry yourself that practically screams 'John Watson has no friends' and I even have to agree to that sentiment because quite frankly it is true–"

For the second time today, I snapped.

"Sherlock would you please _shut up_," I took a sharp intake of breath, "just shut up alright? I don't need somebody making observations of my life and my actions. Just stop doing whatever you're doing now which is being an annoying dick and let me relax for once!"

…

"All those things you said. I didn't need you to sodding say it out loud. I know it. I know you know it."

…

"You…were supposed to be my friend, Sherlock."

…

Sherlock's face was scrunched up. He shouldn't be looking so confused. I should. How does being told that you have no friends by _your best friend in the world _feel? I don't mean to be a whiny bitchy sounding teen girl, but after being alone for the longest period of time, I could never remember how a genuine smile felt like. Nobody could make me smile more easily and genuinely than Sherlock. He became the closest thing to family within a few days, and perhaps even more. Above all, I treasured him so much more than he could ever imagine.

"John, I don't quite understand."

I treasured him so much, yet I could never find a way to let him know how thankful I was that he had stepped into my life. I had no way of letting know how utterly frustrating it was, being unable to tell your best friend your feelings and drowning in the uneasiness of the very thought that your significant other might never know how you feel.

Even now, as my searing gaze matched Sherlock's icy, eerily cool one, I couldn't bring myself to tell him my feelings.

Too stubborn.

"OF COURSE YOU WOULDN'T. YOU NEVER DO." Unable to contain my fury and despair, I balled up my fists and glared at Sherlock. "You…you never understand," I repeated quietly, "because you're _too smart _and you know what? John Watson doesn't need friends, and neither does Sherlock Holmes because he's a bloody MONSTER."

Sherlock had gone quiet. He stood, stiffly rooted to the floorboards, his gaze trailing mine. His eyes angered me even more. The too-pale orbs clearly showed that the man was utterly confused and didn't comprehend in the slightest as to why I was so disgustingly frustrated. They seemed to judge me, silently, regarding me curiously. I felt disgusting, like a small animal being watched from within its cage. I felt like the fucking _dove _that Sherlock had bought from god knows where.

At that moment, I hated Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was… different, and I knew and appreciated this better than anybody else. As conceited as that might sound, I have never wanted anybody to be closer to Sherlock than I was. Sherlock was the one man who made me feel wanted in a long time.

A period of lengthy silence ensued as he continued to stare, his brows furrowing a little more deeply with each passing second. I was the first to break the spell.

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm sick of this. Sod it all. Just go do whatever you want and stop bothering me. I'm going out. If you follow me or even _dare _to plant one of those bloody bugs or whatever you use to track people, I'll make you recite the solar system backwards fifty thousand times until your mouth falls off and then some. Handle dinner by yourself. Don't wait for me. Goodnight."

I didn't even bother to grab my jacket, although I knew it was freezing outside. I simply marched down the stairs, making more noise than I should, and slammed the front door as loud as possible so that the hinges of 221B rattled. I didn't even look back to see that Sherlock's face wasn't in its usual stoic coat anymore.

I didn't see that his features was twisted; tired, weary and so unmistakably in pain.


End file.
